


Thin and Crisp

by toujours_nigel



Category: The Charioteer - Mary Renault
Genre: Boarding School, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-30
Updated: 2013-05-30
Packaged: 2017-12-13 11:12:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/823635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toujours_nigel/pseuds/toujours_nigel





	Thin and Crisp

The new studies were still faintly redolent with the smell of new paint, though the pieces of furniture dotting them were familiar and old. Hugh patted their table fondly and said, “Considerate of them to leave us this one.”  
  
Ralph, considering how best to push the door closed without disturbing the untidy stack of books in his arms, and consequently snappish, said, “If you think they moved the damn things an inch more than they had to, Hugh, you’re a bigger fool than I knew. Now come close the damned door, it keeps digging into my hip.”  
  
Hugh only said, very mildly, “You could just walk in.” But he detached himself from his contemplation of the furniture and edged around Ralph to close the door, and Ralph felt immediately ashamed. He dumped the books on the table and bent to consider the ink-mottled surface of it. These rooms had been commons for the twirps, till an increase in intake had forced them into the draughty, converted old gymnasium. A new gymnasium had been built over the summer hols, and new walls had been put up to transform the commons into a warren of studies. The furniture had largely remained in place, and on their table, at some younger age, both he and Hugh had carved their names in close proximity. He remembered with a slight shock of wonderment the care they had taken over it: not content to merely write their names and be done with, as most of their fellows had done, Ralph had spent some time coaxing the blade of his penknife into the curves of ‘n’ and ‘r’ and ‘e’ and long curling tail of the ‘y’; Hugh had had to manage the ‘o’ and his own ornate ‘T’.  
  
When he turned, Hugh was watching him closely, leaning heavily against the door. “Damn thing’s refusing to lock; we’ll have to get hold of some grease and hope for the best. D’you think Stuart had a laugh about it?”  
  
“Bound to have. Who’s our third? Anyone but Evans.”  
  
Hugh smiled, which Ralph thought really was unfair: when he had been a twirp and not entirely self-aware, he had entertained a passion of sorts for Hugh that he had since determinedly excised, but that sort of thing still caught him unawares. “It’s just us, we haven’t a third.”  
  
“Ha ha; pull the other one.” They had only just gained access to the studies; only the sixth-formers were put in two to every room: Mr. Stuart would never do it.  
  
“Oh, not really, but Somers Minor’s starting at West Point, which leaves us one short.” No use asking how Hugh found out; the old boys’ network was omniscient, and Hugh, in addition to having followed his father to the school, was properly Treviss Minor; his brother had led the Old Boys to victory in last year’s match.  
  
Instead he said, uncomfortable with the new weight of responsibility, “Well, that’s lucky. How do you think we should divvy the room, then?” It was a shade smaller than some of the other studies, built where the corridor crooked from the studies to the dorms, and ten to one Mr. Stuart would expect one or both of them to keep an eye on the twirps and help out the prefects; but it was handsomely done nonetheless.  
  
  
  
They did not get much work done, in any event, as the trains disgorged boys who hurried up from town piled into buses and talking incessantly, all the usual rules of reticence forgotten for the day. By afternoon the fragile peace of the morning had been decisively shattered, and Ralph, who had been staring steadily and unseeingly at the first page of his Phaedrus for several minutes, put it away with grateful alacrity the moment Fitzroy looked in to suggest a swim. Hugh, shoulder-deep in a pile of shirts, and in any case somewhat in awe of Fitzroy, declined the invitation, leaving Ralph to affect a disinterested stroll to the door and then decisively spoil the effect by scrambling back for his book. Hugh’s gaze followed him steadily to the door; when he returned, he would have to remember to act unconcerned.  
  
In a moment he brushed the hair off his forehead and said, “Is it still time for Stuart’s?” It was terrible that he slipped so easily into a coltish sort of awkwardness around Fitzroy for all that it had been some years since he’d been quite so like a twirp about anyone else. But there it was, and here he was, having to fix his eyes steadily on the floor for fear of fixing them doltishly on Fitzroy’s face.  
  
“For about twenty minutes or so, which is plenty of time for a dip” Fitzroy offered, and added quite kindly, looking up from his watch, “well, unless you’re too exhausted to make a run of it?”  
  
Three minutes later they were standing outside the pool, entirely out of breath from having run clear across the playing fields and through half the school. It was lucky that Fitzroy was a sixth-former and neither of them were twirps, Ralph though dizzily, or they’d’ve been hauled into old Stewpots’ study to be caned—at least one master had had to scamper out of their way so precipitously that he’d knocked over an urn, and they’d both been too set upon their race to offer more than a muttered sorry by way of apology—as it was, it was going to be a sermon on gentlemanly behaviour. At least it had done wonders for his shyness: it would have felt stranger to be unable to look at Fitzroy with a measure of ease after that mad dash, and in any case it had been only the way in which everything about school felt unfamiliar just after the hols.  
  
Just outside the pool a long line of twirps from Stuart’s were lining up, all looking vaguely disgruntled about it. Fitzroy darted a quick glance at his precious watch, and moved up to collar one of them—a wet little boy whose red hair fell into his eyes—and said, “Why’re all of you out already? T’house still has fifteen minutes at least.”  
  
“Mr. Peters turned us out because we were just messing about.” He cast an anxious glance at his friends, who had all retreated to a safe distance. “Please, Fitzroy, may I go?”  
  
Fitzroy darted a glance from the twirp back at Ralph and straightened from his crouch. “Who d’you fag for?”  
  
“I don’t know, Fitzroy, I’m sorry.”  
  
“Never mind, I’m stealing you for the duration; you straighten up and come to my room in fifteen minutes. D’you know where it is?” The twirp considered, then shook his head vigorously. It was almost like watching a puppy shake off water. Fitzroy frowned. “Well, find out from someone. Fifteen minutes... what’s your name?”  
  
“Odell.” He hadn’t looked particularly Irish to Ralph, but the red hair was a bit of a giveaway, if one cared to look, and the milky skin—though that looked nearly blue, with what had to be tremendous embarrassment and not a little terror. He didn’t, at any rate, wait to be dismissed before running after his mates; one boy a little taller than him put out a hand to draw him into the group, and they proceeded at only a slightly slower pace.  
  
Fitzroy said, “Well, let’s go up to my study, at least. I’d really wanted that swim.”  
  
Ralph, who had wanted it for what he was sure were slightly different reasons and was even a little relieved that it had proved impossible, said, “But not enough to have an argument with Peters about it.”  
  
“Mr. Peters for you. And no, not quite that much. Well, come along, Ralph.”  
  
  
  
Fitzroy’s study, along with the studies of most of the sixth-formers, was up in the tower and decently away from the twirps; they were, besides, rooms that had been created as studies and the furniture, which Ralph privately felt made it lack character, was devoid of carved in names and blots of ink—far too solemn to belong to schoolboys. Some of this he would think of much later, when in possession of a room quite like it. In the moment he was aware only of the old-fashioned arm-chair that rested by the open window, and of Fitzroy behind him, neatly closing the door.  
  
“Is that the one thing you’ve brought from home?” He felt a fool next moment for asking. It was no business of his, certainly, and clearly enough it wasn’t part of the school’s effects; he thought he recognised it, but couldn’t be sure.  
  
But Fitzroy showed no sign of finding it an awkward question. He came up easily and drew the curtains against the evening breeze before turning to face Ralph. He looked, Ralph thought uneasily, like a picture of a highwayman, with his long limbs and long face and the dark hair shadowing his dark eyes. Then he spoke, and was Fitzroy again, adding well to every line of speech. “Well, and a few prints and such, been too lazy to drive in nails just yet, but mostly the chair. T’wasn’t half a lark, getting the porters at the station to get it off; at home Dickie and I had to help haul it on, Rogers has got a bit senile.”  
  
“Do you mean fragile?”  
  
“I mean senile. What, didn’t you notice it this time?”  
  
“Spent the last week of hols with my grandparents.”  
  
“Well,” said Fitzroy, and looked around a little, “that answers my question about the hols. Dickie was that mad when you said you wouldn’t come with us.”  
  
“It wasn’t that awful,” Ralph said, and, studying the room with some more care, “Well, congratulations, Fitzroy.” It was about a toss-up whether he’d got Games or the House; it wasn’t possible that it would be the School, with how ill people thought of Stuart’s, but clearly Fitzroy’s study was intended for a single occupant: he wondered how he’d not seen it already, Fitzroy must’ve been hoping for a bout of congratulations immediately after they were past the threshold. It didn’t do to let himself get quite so caught up: it’d only been two measly months since they’d last met, even if Fitzroy did look about a yard longer.  
  
“It’s only Games,” Fitzroy said, his smile dimming a little, “Dickie wouldn’t let up for days; he’d been hoping that hard that I’d get the House. Well, but it made me miss you quite badly, you wouldn’t believe how difficult ’tis to try and hoist someone into the Rhine by oneself.”  
  
“Sounds like your hols went very well.”  
  
“Failed attempts at fratricide aside, that it did. And t’hasn’t escaped my notice that you’re attempting to avoid answering my questions, Ralph my lad.”  
  
“I hadn’t noticed you’d asked one,” Ralph returned, and took the chair with some appearance of insouciance. There, that was better, and now Fitzroy felt more familiar, rolling his eyes and snorting in disdain.  
  
“Well, my stolid young friend, why didn’t you come with me and Dickie?”  
  
“It wasn’t possible, that’s all.” He wanted more than anything for Fitzroy to not be kind, and only a little less for him to stop probing. It had caused very nearly a fight at home, or would have if his parents believed in such things.  
  
“Your father’s our GP, for Chrissake; ’tisn’t damn well charity.”  
  
“He doesn’t think it is. It’s only that... ”  
  
“That my grandfather was squire when your mum’s father was a farmer who paid him rent and she can’t forget it. Well, is that about the size of it?”  
  
At least he wasn’t being kind. Ralph said, “And it is terribly strange that the feudal system in dying should leave traces of resentment amongst the lower classes, is that about the size of it for you?”  
  
Fitzroy looked confused and hurt and very handsome. “You talk as though they were serfs.”  
  
In a minute it would be too late for reparations, and he would have to spend the term pretending that he didn’t care about being left out of Fitzroy’s life and doings. He said, “No, only peasants.”  
  
In the tense silence there was a knock at the door. Fitzroy drew an audible, shuddering breath and crossed the room to let in a red-haired little boy who stood looking surreptitiously around for a moment before saying, “I’m sorry, Fitzroy, only I had to find someone who knew where your study was.”  
  
Fitzroy looked at his watch. “You’re not much late. Well, the kettle’s right there, and the bog’s down the corridor. You might as well make it here instead of going to the kitchens at this hour.”  
  
“Yes Fitzroy.” He moved neatly, none of the obvious tension spilling over into his actions: a balm to the eyes after the rage stiffening Fitzroy’s tall frame.  
  
“And Odell. Make some toast. Lanyon likes his thin and crisp, but mind you don’t burn the lot.”  
  
Fitzroy grinned but Ralph felt vaguely embarrassed. It wasn’t even as though he believed half of what she said, it was only. Well, she was his mother, and she couldn’t help her parents one jot more than he could help his. It wasn’t the sort of thing one could apologise for.  
  
  
  
At dinner, Treviss frowned at his half-empty plate. “Shouldn’t swimming have given you more of an appetite? You’ve barely eaten.”  
  
He should make some joke about the slop at school being particularly inedible after hols, but Hugh’s heard him complain at length about his mother’s cooking often enough. He shrugged instead. “Didn’t go swimming after all; Peters turfed the House. Fitzroy snagged a twirp and we had tea.”  
  
“Oh, was that who Odell was fagging for? He came asking for directions.” He stopped to shovel food into his mouth. “He’s in the dorm next ours, funny little bugger."


End file.
